


Senses on the Run

by CurseUndone



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ambiguous/shifting efforts for Aziraphale and Crowley, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other sex acts mentioned but those two are the main ones, Overstimulation, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24306727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CurseUndone/pseuds/CurseUndone
Summary: There was something delectable in desperation.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 83





	Senses on the Run

There was something delectable in desperation. Like dark chocolate, Aziraphale thought, rich, sweet, but with an edge of bitterness.

He thought he wore it well, whines that poured out of his throat, strong thrusts of his hips, rolling through the sensation to draw it out. He talked, blasphemed through it, shouted. He liked to set Crowley to fuck between his thighs and spill there without touching him. The demon nuzzled against his jaw, breathing hard, and asked, “No more?” and Aziraphale rubbed his thighs together, dirty and wanting, and shook his head, turned to kiss a hot breath into Crowley’s mouth. Crowley stroked over his belly, up his sides, teasing and soothing. He adored the afterglow of each episode of this game of thwarted desire, after Crowley had pressed his tongue between Aziraphale’s cheeks or gently rubbed him while he frotted against Aziraphale’s hip or pressed lingering kisses to the inside of his thighs while he pressed into Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale buzzed with it, hungry for more while simultaneously reveling in the wait. Crowley soothed his tension with a rain of kisses and arms cinched around his middle, a hum in his throat. “Lovely, lovely,” he murmured. “Another month, I think.” Aziraphale moaned at the idea of it.

Crowley wore it well, too, though differently. Incoherent half-gasps punched out of his chest, whimpers, unable to speak except in an animal language of keens and harsh breaths, and twitching, clutching, shifting, restless with any drop of pleasure and shocked at the brush of it. He liked to be spread out or propped up and then held there with a touch or a word, then taken apart, then taken apart again, and when he trembled there, a moment from shuddering out of his skin, taken apart _again_. Wordless, jaw slack, there were no human limits to hide behind, only sensation to shake under; he was lightning caught in a bottle. Aziraphale settled between his thighs and licked and sucked until Crowley couldn’t stop quivering, he set him in his lap and worked him over while his mouth worked on Crowley’s neck, he slid a toy inside him and held him close as he turned it up, and after it all, Crowley was a mess , exhausted and sore and not quite in control of his limbs. He collapsed into sleep like an embrace and woke up to a real one, warm fingers soft in his hair, a small but grounding touch. He grinned sleepily up, slurred, “Good,” and fell under again as Aziraphale laughed.

That was the sweetness of desperation: an extreme state whose bitterness can turn ugly so quickly, but in the safety of a trusted love can be spun into something beautiful.


End file.
